Preface: This journey was always likely to be the most grueling and uncertain segment of my envisioned itinerary. Bumpy roads aside, the security situation in the region is semi-stable at best. Target killings in the city of Quetta are rather frequent and there have been multiple incidents of Taliban insurgency along the Taftan – Quetta corridor in recent months. Although completing the Iran-India overland route was my dream, I set out from home with a mind open to alternatives. Adventure in the name of fun is exhilarating. Death in the name of adventure is just stupid. As my Iran visa approached its expiry date, I began heavy research into the trending security situation of Balouchistan province in southwestern Pakistan. I scoured travel blogs and security reports. The more I learned, the less rational it seemed to be traveling this route. I weighed options, researched viable alternatives, did some hard thinking, had a fortunate encounter and ultimately concluded that I would make the trip. I’m so glad I did.

Note: This post spans two calendar days: December 24th and 25th

The underground wedding reception hall was pitch black as I opened my eyes and lifted my head. I gathered my belongings and followed Dan (my new travel companion; a Kiwi who had just spent six months cycling the silk road through Central Asia) into the breaking day. It was 0600. We would begin our journey to Quetta, the capital of Balouchistan.

We had been put up by a couchsurfing host the previous night. It was a great way to enjoy a final cultural exchange in Iran and to avoid arousing the curiosity of the border town police.

We taxied to the Pakistan border-bound savari (shared taxi) stand. Our new driver knew the drill. He roped my pack to the top and shoved Dan’s bag in the trunk. It was 96 km to the border. Within only twenty kilometres the prevailing patience that we would require for the duration of our journey was first tested. We exited the cab and followed an Iranian checkpost policeman, currently holding our passports hostage, to a nearby trailer. He told us to wait outside the closed door. It felt a stark contrast to the local hospitality I had to come expect while traveling Iran. The persistent dichotomy was personaified. In his uniform, this man was of The State and not The People. Minutes later another man emerged and surrendered our passports. We were back on the road.

We unloaded at the border and paid our fare. There was a decent line up waiting to exit Iran – all men. We joined them, but were soon ushered through a vacant immigration station. I paused at the TV screen showing regional news in the waiting room. No reports of violence overnight in Pakistan.

I was squished in the middle seat of between an off-duty member of the Revolutionary Guard and a quiet Computer Science major. We rattled down the Karaj-Qazvin freeway. My three very busy, but thoroughly enjoyable days in Tehran had been intense and my plan to take refuge in the hills felt smart.

We arrived in Qazvin before 10:00. I reclaimed my downsized pack (I left all unessential items in Tehran) from the trunk of the shared taxi and negotiated a private taxi to take me to where the Alamut-bound taxis congregated.

I negotiated a ride to Ramyizan, an entry-point into the Valley and the jumping off point for the Lamiasar Castle - 4000 tomans ($1.20 USD). I was the second to commit. Once the remaining two seats were filled we would hit the winding road. I took advantage of the wait time to source breakfast.

I entered a small shop. A glass case beside a flat grill top was displayed the calories on offer. Selection was limited. I pointed to the least offensive looking array of sliced sausages and with the same index finger indicated that I wanted one portion.

Moments later I had a sandwich. Before returning to the car, I also bought an array of biscuits and nuts to stave off starvation lest my planned two day trek in the mountains didn’t unfold as anticipated.

I munched. The car now awaited a single outstanding occupant. I was still hungry. I had noticed a stack of eggs in the same shop where I had purchased the survival snacks. The corner store owner was chatting with the sandwich maker. The opportunity was primed. I mustered some communications skills and approached them. With my hands and a smile I did my best to ask: ‘If I buy to eggs from you, will you cook them for me.' They were quick on the uptake and I slammed the scrambled egg sandwich as the ancient Peugot sputtered to life.

I left home on November 1st. I spent the weekend in Germany with a friend from my 2009 exchange to France, Niklas. I departed Niklas’ house in Mulheim, Ruhr early in the morning of the 5th in order to arrive at the Iran embassy in Den Hagg close to the start of the ‘Visa processing hours’ stated on the embassy website – 10 to noon. Once in Den Hagg, I navigated my way to the embassy using bus stop maps and the mental snapshot of the embassy location I had Google Mapped the night before.

The embassy building was the typical scene of high, iron gates, massive national flags and eerie tranquility. What was not typical was the semi-permanent Dutch police post on the street in front. It appeared idle. I didn’t think too much of it.

It was not obvious how to enter the building. I found a sign board and deduced that I had mis-read the ‘visa processing hours’ on the website. The timing was actually 1400 to 1600. Disappointed and a bit confused that I had messed this up I idled on the corner for a moment, not sure how to kill four hours.

I noticed an Iranian looking couple pull up in a Skoda, get out and ring a door bell at a possible entrance to the embassy. After a moment, they were admitted.

Monkey see, monkey do.

I buzzed and entered. Once inside, I felt transported from Deng Hagg to Tehran. I pulled a number and waited.

After some moments I was summoned. I took a deep breath and strode to the counter. I communicated my want for a visa. The man smiled to my relief and indicated that visa hours were 1400 to 1600. I would have to come back then. This was fine. The positive reinforcement was uplifting. I wandered to the waterfront. Most shops were closed as it was Monday. I killed the hours in a café catching up in my journal.

Close to 1400 I saddled up again and made my way back to the embassy. I arrived a few minutes after 1400. Already there with a handful of people pulling numbers. Very few of them had prepared their applications in advance. Most managed to obtain and fill out their forms before my number was called. This rendered the civilised processing system into…well… I wasn’t immediately sure, but I was ready to get pushy to maintain my spot in the queue. I continued to smile at the single visa processor – the same man I had developed a rapport with in the morning. Shortly he called on me. I handed him my documents and he fetched my reference number. He seemed pleased, but, pointing to a photocopy machine in the corner of the rectangular room, indicated that I needed a photocopy of my passport. I had several in my backpack, but eager to follow instructions and not rummage in my pack, I swiftly made my way to the back corner. Within minutes I had two copies and give him signal that I was ready to continue. There were a dozen people now competing for his attention; however it seemed that I was a priority and none of the other applicants protested – my smiles were going the distance. Everything was in order.

Now, I needed to submit the 50 euro fee. I handed over a bank note. The man shook his balding head. He said that I could only pay with a Dutch bank card. I stared at him in disbelief, my mouth edged upward in a modest grin. Was he pulling a fast one on me?! No he was serious. He suggested that I ask one of the other applicants to put up the plastic for me. This was something I was very much looking forward to addressing, my prior experience for the taboo relationship between foreigners and their money at the forefront of my thoughts. I waited several seconds before turning around to face the crowd. With my delayed turn, I half of me hoped he would change his mind and the other half was strategically giving the crowd time to mull the reality. Quickly a girl, about my age, stepped forward. I passed her the 50 euro note and she inserted her card. I thanked her profusely. Transaction completed I was told to sit and wait for finger printing. The man said in his broken English, “I don’t like do this, but must do.” I was indifferent I was focused on rolling over any road bumps with the force of an earth mover, before they became road blocks.

After a brief stint in the waiting room I was lead into a side room. The bare walls sparked visions of how I believed a Soviet era questioning chamber would be decorated. Other man instructed me to pressed each digit individually into the red ink before placing it on the paper. He gave Kleenex to wipe after the procedure was complete.

He then asked if I would obtain my visa and passport today or later in the week. “Today?!” this was the first I had heard of this option. I asked is same-day processing was an option and how much it would cost. He quoted twenty-five euros and left to confirm that this was in fact a possibility. My mind jumped forward to the prospect of leaving the embassy this afternoon with visa-stamped passport in hand. Kinda seemed like the joy of my last five birthday combined (just not quite as much beer…).

He returned as said that same-day was no problem. I walked outside with renewed confidence and asked the girl to put up the twenty-five euros on her bank card again. Then I sat down and waited.

There were still some people waiting who had arrived after me that had yet to visit the window. No of them were visibly of Iranian ancestry. Ah the patient Dutch…

At 1530 the man looked up at me from the window. He held up my passport. To him, Visa NO. 112376, to me, a trophy.

He passed it to me along with a CD of images of Iranian scenery. I smiled, thanked him and high tailed it out of the embassy before any afterthoughts could be processed.

Suppressing my emotion, I calmly exited the iron gate doors. With the embassy out of sight I left out a quiet, “Fuck ya!”, and subtle fist pump.

Those of you who know me well know that I am not really ‘a planner’. Those of you who know me best know that I don’t exactly float directionless either.

My general philosophy breathes life into what the late Steve Jobs articulated in his Stanford convocation speech – make a bunch of dots and connect them at some point further along in life’s journey.

I have dreamt about traveling overland from Turkey to India for years. In early October I decided it was a good time to make good on this self promise.

I wanted to leave right away and within 3 weeks was set to depart November 1st.I plan to travel from Istanbul to the south of India overland crossing through Kurdistan (northern Iraq), Iran and Pakistan on the way.

Although the route I originally envisioned included a detour south through Syria to Lebanon before heading east, I will have to save those destinations for a time when greater regional peace is possible.

I’m going solo. I will admit that I had early apprehensions about not buddying up with someone for the trek, however I have chosen to embrace the positives that come with going it alone – doing whatever I want whenever I feel like it and being more approachable by local peoples instead of dwelling on the downsides of being a one-man-act – not having any one wingperson to share long bus rides and unique memories with and the added comfort knowing that someone always had your back.

The single biggest question most people have when they hear of my trip is whether or not this is a reasonably safe itinerary. My response is constant and valid – I love life way too much to put myself in uncalculated danger.

To back that up I’ve traveled a fair amount, have done some good preliminary research to understand the precursory risks associated with my routing and speak fluent Turkish, Kurdish, Farsi, Urdu and Hindi (not!).

When traveling, I always keep a personal, handwritten journal to document the fun. This time, I plan to share some stories with those not directly alongside me through this blog.

I’m happy to hear feedback on the content ie. more stories about the shitty days I will inevitably have diarrhea and fewer about me having a blast or vice versa. Also, if you’d like a postcard to spice up your fridge shoot me a message via email, facebook or twitter. I’ve already received a couple messages from random people asking me to send them one from Iran – so you won’t be alone in the request.

Obtaining a tourist visa to visit Iran is notoriously challenging. In general there are three categories that visitors to foreign countries fit into when planning a trip. 1. No visa is required to enter 2. Purchasing of a mandatory Visa On Arrival (VOA) 3. A visa must be obtained in advance (usually through the foreign consulate or embassy in the home country) What documentation you require for entry is primarily dependent on your nationality and subsequently your nation’s diplomatic relations with the country you intend to visit. The rule of thumb is: the better ‘friends’ they are, the fewer restrictions in place. Iran is in a category of its own. Naturally, visa is required, but in effect it is a two-step process to obtain the necessary visa. Step 1 In order to apply for an Iranian visa, you must first be officially invited to the country. Unless you have personal contacts that are able to secure the necessary documentation directly from the Iranian Ministry, you are forced to hire a travel agency to obtain an ‘invitation code’ on your behalf. In early October, anticipating this trip, I hired an agency in Tehran. They forwarded me the reference number application which I completed and returned. I waited just over a week until the agency contacted me with news that they had an invitation code for me. They would send my code to ‘the embassy of my choice’ for Step 2 – the processing of the visa. Normally I would have selected Ottawa where I would be able to courier my passport for the final visa from my home in Calgary, but since the Canadian Foreign Ministry’s decided to expel all Iranian diplomats mid-September of this year, this was not an option. After some research, I elected The Hague in The Netherlands – it was en route to the Middle East, I had never been to Amsterdam and most importantly, I had read some recent success stories of foreigners getting Iran visas issued there. In order to finalize the sending of the code, I needed to pay the agency 45 euro for their troubles. Like the case of choosing which embassy to liaise with, this would normally be dead simple, however; due to economic and financial sanctions currently imposed on Iran, no western banks have relations with Iran and no capital is legally allowed to flow in or out of the country. There are serious penalties overlooking this regulation – just ask UK bank Standard Chartered. To circumvent this, the agency provided me with an individuals’ bank account info located in the UK. So, I attempted to transfer the amount to the UK bank account using the online banking services of my Canadian bank. It didn’t work. After days of trying different methods and contacting both the sending and receiving institutions, it was apparent that the Canadian banks had restrictions against the BIC number is was trying to use. I had no choice but to send the funds via wire transfer. This was feasible, but it was going to cost me $40 to send 45 euros instead of $13 to send the amount - not the end of the world, but worth working to avoid. Before spending over $100 dollars on something intangible halfway across the world, I wanted to make sure that the Iran embassy in The Hague was on board to issue me a visa. Because of short embassy working hours, time difference between Holland and Canada, and my tendency to hit ‘snooze’ it took three different mornings of waking up at 3 AM to call the embassy via Skype and try to learn if they had my received code. At the end of these attempts, I had accomplished little to secure peace of mind. I decided that it was worth the risk and that I would have to trust those involved. Once I emailed confirmation of the wire transfer to the agency, they sent me my code. Step 1 was complete. Nothing more could be done on this front until I arrived in The Hague and handed over my passport. My plans were more in the balance than ever.